


Never According To Plan

by sinners_sandwich



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pirates, this is literally the silliest fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 02:52:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinners_sandwich/pseuds/sinners_sandwich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pirates/Sailors AU.  Roman--new captain in a family legacy of traders--just came out to have a good time, and he is honestly feeling so attacked right now. (Roman/Dean)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stolen Shipment

**Author's Note:**

> yoo so like. i had this little universe swimming about in my head for a while so i figured i'd just. try and get it rolling! it's kind of a lowkey fantasy au but mostly about like, pirates, which are great. and it's also 100% silly! i hope yall enjoy and if you do, lemme know! i may just write more and ideally get to the good stuff 8^)
> 
> i'll also probably have to think of a better summary when i can manage to LOL

 

Five days.

 

Five days since Roman had taken on the role of captain of his family's ship. They're established in these parts and all others, known by most as children of the sea, a legacy respected by any sailor within the law or without it. Even those who don't care to say much for the gods that are revered in these parts, would think twice about interfering with his family's trade. If not out of fear of those gods that are said to favor Roman's family, the ones that guide the tide and the winds that any sailor depends on, then out of fear of all those in power who  _do_  take a more superstitious view.

 

Rogues, pirates, thieves--they were never a problem when his father was at the helm. And some little miserable part of Roman says they wouldn't have been a problem if his older brother had taken on the responsibility when their father passed, like he was supposed to, instead of disappearing without a care to pursue... something else.

 

Leaving Roman here-- _five days_  later and still in mourning, not just of his father but of the brother who's now as good as dead to him--with a crew ranging from restless to outright furious, at this small fact. The large shipment they were meant to be loading up right now, already accounted into their family's hands and awaited on the other side of the sea, is completely and absolutely... gone.

 

No trace of where to.

 

Roman paces the deck, slow, ignoring the sound of agitated crewmen shouting just meters away on the docks, ignoring the sound of Jimmy doing his best to settle them down, and ignoring, most of all, the sharp stare he's getting from the only other person out on deck with him at the moment.

 

He stops, and starts, staring into the wood below his feet like the answer to where his shipment's gone is written in the grain.

 

"This is your responsibility, Roman." Tamina's voice cuts through the air just as hard as her eyes, and Roman jerks his head up just briefly enough to stare at her, ungrateful. "Like it or not, when  _you_  stepped up to this, you took that on. Things going missing now, they go in your name. It falls on you."

 

"Think maybe it shoulda fell on the two who were supposed to be watching the shipment," Roman nearly growls out, but it's more to himself, more agitated that five days into this new role and he already made the wrong choice on who to trust. He would've trusted Jimmy and Jey to watch this shit, or Tamina herself. But he's got a whole crew on his hands and he’s trying to make this work. Can't leave a whole crew's work to three.

 

He hears Tamina walk over to him and he stops pacing, casting a look to the woman, who can probably read a little bit of  _please help me_  between the  _fuck everything_  written into his stiffened up face.

 

"Listen," she says. "Naomi knows a couple of innkeeps round here. She took off soon as she heard, so it won't be long now 'til she's back."

 

Roman can fill in the blanks. The suggestion sits heavy in the air anyway: once there's some information on what might've happened to his shipment, it's on him to go after it. "You think she'll find anything out?"

 

Tamina folds her arms, glancing over the rails, down at the docks as Jimmy's pulling apart two of the crew who're ready to throw fists. "You talk like you don't know her. She'll gut a man just to find out where he's stashed a copper."

 

Despite himself, Roman cracks the first smile he's managed in hours. Rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand, licking his lips clean of the salt taste that the sea will blow right back on. "You guys tell some wild stories."

 

Tamina jerks her head toward him and raises her eyebrows, looking half sarcastic, half amused. "Does the job, doesn't it?"

 

* * *

 

It's two hours later that Naomi returns, just as the sun's making its way out, casting orange over the whole port town. Just as Tamina said, she brings a few leads, one of which she's more confident in than the others, and it's honestly the best lead Roman's got, so he takes it.

 

"I'm coming with you," Tamina says.

 

"No, you ain't," Roman says right back, lacing up the front of his loose shirt ‘til it hugs closer to his collar, and tying on a worn leather overcoat. Tattoos hidden. "Things go missing now, it's on my name. I'm takin' care of it."

 

Her words back to her. She gives a singular shake of her head and raises her fist halfway up, a gesture of solidarity between those in their family.

 

The name of the place he's supposed to be finding is  _Pig's Head Tavern_. He repeats it like a mantra in his head, mouthing it out to himself a few times just for good measure, so he doesn't mix it up with any of the other shady joints in this part of the city. It's just that hour when everyone's out in the streets, too, and every shout of a stranger is risk enough to interrupt his thoughts and make all Naomi's work for nothing.  _Pig's Head Tavern. Pig's Head Tavern._

 

He knows better than to stop and ask for help around here, in these parts, banking on the fact that if someone's willing to stop to help you, it's because they're helped themself to your coin already, and Roman doesn't need that on top of everything else. He keeps his arms tight, keeps his posture menacing, all the way up to his destination.

 

As captain, he's got a reputation to establish, or something.

 

When he finds said destination, it's a little easier than he thought it'd be--people are gathered around out in front of it, tossing coppers at some men out front who're performing on makeshift drums and a bent-up trombone that Roman assumes was repurposed from something the Queen's marching band threw away.

 

"Excuse me!" One of the performers shouts, stopping mid-performance, and it takes Roman a moment to realize it's him who's being addressed. He stops, looking quizzically toward the three as they gather round him--like they're not the performers here, but an audience.

 

"Yeah, what is it?" Roman speaks. Low, menacing. And for what it's worth, all the frustration of this day backs up the threat that's implied in his posture.

 

The one with the trombone beams at him, resting the instrument up against his shoulder. "You, sir, look like a man on a mission."

 

"Yes you do, yes you do," the one with the drum chirps, clapping his hands with a delight Roman isn't sure he would ever trust. "You see, we heard that one new, baby captain..."

 

"Captain of his own family's ship!" Trombone adds.

 

"Got  _robbed_ , today," Drums finishes with an exaggerated downturn of his lips.

 

Roman looks between the two, maybe a little worried about how fast word's been travelling about his failures, but then, he figures that comes with the legacy of the damn thing. "That what you heard, eh."

 

Before either of them can say anything else, their third member, a much larger man, lumbers up behind them and stands there, the menace that he has  _got_  to be, and not for the first time tonight, Roman wonders if he's about to get mugged. Hell, the trombone is weapon enough with the three of them there, and he doesn't think he can count on this crowd to help if something happens.

 

"If that man is  _you_ , my friend," the big man says, through a curiously unchanging, stony expression. "Then it sounds to me like you are lookin' for the pirate that stole... your..." He pauses, emphasizes, " _booty_."

 

Roman squares himself up, attempting to measure halfway up to the big guy, let alone his two friends. "I ain't lookin' for no pirates," he shoots back. "Just the low-life dock thieves I was told I could find here. If any of y'all happen to know where I can  _find_  those thieves, you just let me know."

 

"Oh, we do! We do!" Drums pipes up, grabbing Roman by the arm, and Roman's maybe too caught up in this whole scene he's so unfamiliar with to stop and question why these three strangers are trying to help him, other than they want to see a guy from Roman's family get into a scrape two blocks past the decent part of town. But he lets the man pull him toward the door as the other two follow, having no other plan of action.

 

He's pulled into the tavern, and it's oddly a little less busy than it was outside--but still filled with bustle and noise and definitely more than its fair share of danger. Drums, the man who's still got him by his arm, gleefully points in the direction of a man who's just coming down the stairs, shaking his shoulders out and looking around quickly; a man who looks just shady enough that Roman's not about to doubt the guy could be the thief in question.

 

He rips his arm from Drums' grasp, once his eyes are focused in. Frustration and irritation and responsibility ramp up in his shoulders, draw his posture tight as he sails across the bar, shoving his way through whoever stands in the way. Fuck this stupid ship, fuck his scumbag brother, fuck whoever stole his shipment, and also, fuck the guy blaring his trombone into the air back at the door.

 

He reaches the far end of the bar, drives his fist into the guy's face.

 

And that's how he meets Dean Ambrose.

 

* * *

 

  
After a short bout of  _what the fuck_ s, the man fought him off with a few well-placed swings of his fist, though it was probably hard to do while he was collapsed against the stairs. Roman gave himself a second to reconsider the tip-off those three decidedly odd strangers had given him and drew back from the guy in a way that was maybe a little apologetic, though mindful of his own reputation, he kept that self-righteous look on his face.

 

"I was told you have somethin' of mine," is all Roman can say for himself, while the guy glares through his arms, raised defensively over his head. "Guess I shoulda asked, but. Figure no one like that's bound to tell the truth at first go either."

 

"Yeah, well," the man cuts back, lowering his arms once he's apparently sure Roman's not going to hit him again, and rotates his jaw a bit. "Who'd take a guy like you for such a hard hitter? Guess they'd thought it'd be a funny  _joke_." His voice raises up, gets loud, at odd times, in a way Roman has a hard time not paying full attention to.

 

"Well--" Roman feels the need to defend himself further, but he can't really. "If it ain't you, why'd those three point me to you?"

 

The man rolls his shoulders, rolls his head now, like he's agitated just being in his own body or something, and Roman wants to reach over just to hold him still because he doesn't look  _comfortable_. As if catching that thought as it came, the man glances sharply back at him. "What, you can't imagine someone 'round here has a reason to start up a fight?"

 

Not exactly getting his point, Roman frowns slightly. "They knew an awful lot about what I was here for," he points out.

 

"It's always like this!" the man shouts, like Roman said something particularly terrible, but then Roman's not sure the guy is actually responding to him so much as shouting out something that's just on his mind. "You and your kind coming up in places like this, acting like everyone out here is out here cause they're  _stupid_. Ain't no one out here stupid, kiddo, and if you meet someone that seems like they are, well, you might just wanna look in the mirror, cause they got you in the palm of their hand."

 

"I--" Roman pauses. Because this is kind of the last thing he expected a stranger in these parts to be yelling about. "Let me start over, yeah."

 

"Yeah, yeah, that's fine, start over," the man agrees almost too aggressively, nodding his head and looking off with disinterest. "Your name's Roman, my name's Dean, pleasure to meet you, pleasure's all mine... yeah, alright, next."

 

Roman doesn't know why he's surprised someone knows his name, since he sort of didn't make it subtle what he was here about, and once again, his family's business is kind of everyone's business whether he likes it or not. "Dean," he says, dumbly. "Uh, that's a nice.. nice name."

 

“Thanks.” Dean snorts. Agitated? Roman gives him that, since he did just hit the guy in the face. "Not half as fun as Roman, as names go." Dean glances toward him quickly. "Look, no way you and me are gonna be friends, but if you want a little advice, don't--just don't trust no fucker around here that easy. Especially not those three who sent you my way."

 

Roman, partway through that, has moved to take a seat at the open table that sits beside the stairs, and has a little stare-down with Dean until the guy takes the seat across from him--though he does sit in it sideways, refusing to face him completely while he rubs his sore jaw.

 

“And despite your advice, you want me to take your word for it.”

 

Dean glances toward him. “I can read things about people. See into ‘em pretty well. And something tells me, somethin’ about you…” He knocks his fist against the table like he’s searching for words. “You look like you need a little guidance here. In this case, it will have to be on who  _not_  to trust in these parts.”

 

“Really,” Roman says.

 

“Hell, you’d believe I’m the captain of the King’s navy if I told that to you right now.”

 

Roman almost smiles, almost. “Are you?”

 

“Nah,” Dean dismisses with a wave of his hand. “Can’t stand Kings or any of their pretty little associates. Just take it from me, from your neighbor out on the open seas: don’t trust a fucker with a trombone.”

 

"So you're a sailor too," Roman notes, drumming his fingers on the table as he brings the topic back to his shipment. "Does make you at least a little suspicious in my list of possible thieves." Fuck, he shouldn't be sitting down to chat with someone right now, not with his crew waiting, depending on him for results--but what other leads does he have after blowing his cover right off the bat?

 

He doesn't know if he should make anything of the fact Dean is avoiding his eyes suddenly. "Yeah, well." Dean clears his throat, drums his fingers across his collarbone now, pressing against the loose-fitting, ragged cloth shirt that hangs from his shoulders. He goes on to pick at the leather lacing of the collar.

 

"Well?" Roman says, after a long beat.

 

Dean glances back at him. "You don't really look like I thought you would," he says, and Roman just barely catches the blatant subject change.

 

"Like you thought...? Were you expecting to see me?"

 

"Nah, nah," Dean dismisses, with such a blatant honesty that Roman's got a hard time seeing how his avoidant eyes moments before could be taken as anything but an admission of guilt. "Nothing like that, man. Just, you got, I'unno. Good feel to you. Good look. Nice one. Stand-up sort of guy, kind of look." He wiggles his fingers in Roman's direction. "Wouldn't see that much on most of you rich folk."

 

Roman just stares back. "I ain't rich," he says, and it’s true, sometimes there’s a difference between  _rich_  and  _respected_. A warning creeps up in his tone. "Definitely not rich enough to survive having a shipment stolen, big as I did." And maybe he shouldn't be showing his back to a stranger that easy, but somehow the guy's evident honesty--or whatever the hell it is Roman's inclined to almost  _trust_ about him--inspires his own, right then.

 

Dean clears his throat, averting his eyes again. Fingers drumming over his collar again. And it's definitely  _weird_  to feel inspired by the honesty of a guy you're ninety percent sure is the one responsible for your missing shit.

 

"You got a good look," Dean repeats, more to himself, with a few absent nods of his head, glancing around, anywhere, it seems, but at Roman. "Good look, and a good right hook. Fuckin' more than you can say for most anyone these days. Always one or the other. Or neither."

 

Roman sits back in his chair, pressing his palms to the tabletop, and heaves a long sigh, drawing the other's eyes to him in a way he'd definitely call nervous. "You all right there, Dean?" he drawls. "Not feeling guilty or anything?” How can he assume so much about a guy he’s just met? Well, said guy seems to have a huge tendency to telegraph.

 

But Dean just casts him a stiff sort of smile, standing up abruptly. “Look, it was nice to meet you and all. But I got places to be, and if you aren’t making good on the drink you owe me—“

 

Roman starts and cuts in, “I owe you a drink now?”

 

“Yes.” Dean indicates his jaw, rotating it around for good measure. “You do.”

 

“Yeah, well, I got no time for drinks right now,” Roman declares, standing up himself with his palms to the table. He glances one more time at Dean. “And you’re sure you got nothing on who I oughta be lookin’ for that took my stuff.”

 

“Positive,” Dean shoots him a brief smile, without quite making eye contact, again.

 

Roman just doesn’t know what to do with it. He came in here ready for a fight, but truthfully he’s not going to just beat everyone down that’s acting a bit suspicious. He needs to keep a reputation either way—tough, but not so out of sorts that he’s brawling with anyone that looks at him funny.

 

“Fine,” Roman sighs, throwing his hands up. “Ain’t gonna be able to afford whatever drink you think I owe you after tonight, too, but yeah. That’s fine.”

 

Dean casts him a look that looks, well, amused almost, but Roman doesn’t have it in him to be offended anymore. He just stands there, honestly ready to take whatever hits the guy might want to dish out after the fact, knowing he’s earned at least one to his own face (despite being almost positive this is his thief that he’s about to willingly let walk away), but to his surprise—

 

Dean grabs his head, and places a nice, friendly kiss to the top of his hair.

 

Roman draws back and just  _stares_ at him, and Dean has the gall to flash a sort of smile that Roman figures you’d call  _winning_.

 

“Hang in there, kid,” is all Dean says, and with a two-fingered salute, he’s disappeared into the crowd, not even giving Roman the chance to retort that he is lots of things, but  _kid_  ain’t one of ‘em.

 

 _Next time_ , he tells himself. Somehow he knows there’s going to be one.

 

* * *

  
  
Roman tries finding the person he actually came here to talk to. Nothing. He tries finding those three performers from outside again, but they’re gone, the crowd dissipated, and as night settles fully over the town, people aren’t so heavy in the streets, not willing to get their purses—or their throats—cut.

 

As a last act of desperation, an hour after the encounter, Roman returns to the same stairway he’d met Dean at, hoping maybe for some trace of him, and of course, there’s nothing. He’s got absolutely nothing to say for himself—failed again, let his best lead, the first of the night, get away with no better excuse than  _I got places to be._

 

He’s almost positive he’s not cut out to be captain of anything.

 

Roman’s about to cut his losses and head back to the ship—it’s got to be nearing two in the morning now—when he hears some muttering up the stairs where the rooms are; he presses himself to the other side of the stairs and tries to make out words, staying put as he hears the footsteps of two men slowly making their way down the creaking structure.

 

“—bothered,” he can barely hear half of what’s being said between the loud steps on the stairs. “—ends of the ocean—like this—fuckin’ believe him.”

 

Thankfully the two stop at the base of the stairs, and it doesn’t look like they notice Roman behind it, wrapped up in their conversation and assuming the bar empty.

 

“Look, we  _never_ get a haul like this. We saw the chance, we took it. Ambrose should be  _thanking_ us. This? This got us set up for months if we use it right. Weeks even if he fuckin’ gives half of it away for free.”

 

“Ambrose has… his reasons,” the other man gives back. “Coin’s been flowing pretty well, maybe we shouldn’t have…”

 

“You gotta stop acting like you’re ready to turn us in at every step, Cesaro,” the first man says, with a clap to Cesaro’s shoulder. “Or me n’ the others are gonna have reason to start suspectin’ you, right?”

 

“Right,” Cesaro gives an uneasy laugh, as they head for the door.

 

Roman has a feeling he’s found what he’s looking for. He follows them all the way out to the docks.

                                                    

* * *

  
  
The ship that he tails the two men to is not exactly impressive, but definitely big enough to carry a haul the size of the one Roman was missing. Not that he’d need to step inside it to confirm his hunch—there, sitting right on the dock, is about half the boxes that went missing from outside his ship. He can see the splash of white paint along the corners of some of them, indicators that Jimmy leaves on their cargo.

 

It’s all the way across town from his ship, though, and he doesn’t want to let the damn thing out of his sight long enough to go get backup for this. And as for the authorities? They’re about as good for nothing in these parts, and hell—getting back to that  _reputation_  thing—Roman’s not about to let a group of pirates know that he needs any sort of help from authorities when it comes to taking care of what’s his.

 

He watches—with a clenched jaw—as the two men he followed out start hauling more of the boxes onto the ship, waiting, mulling over what he could possibly do in this situation, with no weapon but an unsharpened knife at his disposal, and these damn pirates probably armed to the teeth, judging by the pistols he caught a glimpse of on their belts.

 

But when he sees a familiar face step out of the cabin and make his way down to the docks, Roman can’t—he just cannot stay hidden behind the brush.

 

“It was you,” he accuses, just barely keeping his voice down not to draw attention around them, because at the moment, he wants this one on one.

 

Dean, not to his credit, looks entirely casual as he stands there  _next to Roman’s stolen shipment_  and stares at him, like he’s waiting for him to say something else.

 

“You, your people. Stealing from me—from my—after I told you, I  _told_ you back there, I am  _not_ gonna make it out above water without this shit! Fuck’s sake!” Roman paces a bit, paces around the few crates that are still left out on the docks, and despite his anger being justified he sort of feels more betrayed by his own head, that earlier put some weird misplaced trust in the guy.

 

Dean looks agitated, again, of all responses you could have after being caught red-handed. “Yeah, okay, all right,” he rolls his shoulders, his arms shaking out as he does. “Yeah, you caught me, good job. Number one detective, that’s you, mate. Just take out a second shipment and tell the guys over there it’s double the price, you’re golden.” And when Roman just gives an agitated noise to that, he has the god-damned nerve to roll his eyes, which rivets Roman to the spot. “What’re you gonna do, call a curse down on me by the sea gods? All that spooky shit?”

 

Roman pauses, gives it a second. Glancing at the crates, knowing he’s got little chance of actually getting his shit back, realistically. Then he looks back at Dean, dead-on, from where he stands.

 

“Nah, brother. I’m gonna kick your ass is what I’m gonna do.”

 

And Dean—grins. Pleased.

 

“Like to see you try,” Dean shoots back, suddenly in a good mood, and Roman can’t help noticing how all his emotional reactions are the wrong ones; casual irritation instead of guilt, and anticipation written into his bones when Roman just declared he’s gonna beat him down. “Bet you’ve never been in a real fight, anyway. Good hit on me earlier—still feelin’ that one—but I’m thinkin’ it was a fluke.”

 

And despite knowing he’s absolutely being provoked here, Roman goes for it, a bull toward a red flag.

 

He charges, with a roar that briefly catches Dean off-guard, throwing a fist for each one the guy throws back. He tackles into him with a heavy shoulder, only to get dropped nearly all the way over by a well-placed flail of the other’s legs, a twist of his arm that Roman really didn’t see coming.

 

He can tell, twenty seconds into it, that the guy has been in a fight or two in his time, and Roman struggles to keep up speed. But he does.

 

“Come on,” Dean pants, through a grin, where he’s laid out on the floor after Roman drove a fist nearly through the guy’s gut. He raises his arms from the floor and wiggles his fingers in the air as if he’s in any state to be taunting. “C’mon, big guy. You lay me out for good and your shipment’s all yours.”

 

And that—that causes Roman to pause, reality to race back into his head. The shipment.

 

“Fuck,” he pants, bending over with an arm draped across his middle, leaning his weight against one of the crates and wincing. “Are you serious? You serious right now?”

 

“Yup,” Dean says. One leg propping up at the knee, foot against the ground, but he doesn’t appear to be making any moves to continue the fight.

 

“Why the  _fuck_ did you steal it in the first place?” Roman demands, instead of just accepting the idea that frankly seems too good to be true.

 

Dean lifts his head, then bobs it back against the floor with a drawn out groan. “You even know what’s in that damn shipment?”

 

Roman pauses. Thinks. Because—he kind of doesn’t know? He’s the worst captain of any ship, ever. “Uh. Medicine, I think.”

 

“That’s right,” Dean wheezes out, swinging a fist at the air like he’s still ready to go. Though the rest of his body seems to think otherwise, after the good four or five tackles and fists it took moments before. “Medicine. Medicine that those poor, sick little orphans overseas need, and got no money to pay for.”

 

“You are not honestly feeding me this shit right now,” Roman shoots back, but maybe the topic strikes at some nerve he really hasn’t had struck in quite a few years now, knowing the welfare of most of the population, knowing how the wealth’s distributed, mostly centered in the nobility, and those with close ties to them. “Hell.” He shakes his head.

 

Dean seems to notice his falter, and grins a little as he pushes himself up from the floor, looking altogether too smug. “Sucks to have a conscience sometimes, don’t it?” he taunts. “Go on, kick me down and you can call this shit yours again. I’ll call the boys out n’ everything, they’ll help you haul it all back.”

 

“I think I did a fine job of beatin’ you down already,” Roman says, having no itch left in either one of his fists, just leaning against his oddly guilt-ridden crates of medical supplies.

 

“Just one thing though.”

 

“What,” Roman deadpans.

 

“If you do take this shit back, spot a few gold to my doctor? Haven’t paid him in a few months.” Dean seems to find this the appropriate time to laugh, and he does, so loud that it fills the air and draws a few of his curious crew-mates out from below deck. They gather with more suspicion—weapons at the ready—when they see Dean laid out at Roman’s feet.

 

“Where’s your captain?” Roman calls to them, voice booming, demanding.

 

One of them—the one he remembers as Cesaro—points down to the body on the ground. “Right there, sir.”

 

* * *

  
  
“It wasn’t him, you know,” Cesaro says, hauling an entire crate on his own, when Roman needs Tamina to take half the load of his, the others following behind him as they methodically take the entire shipment back to where it was stolen from.

 

“What wasn’t who?” Roman mutters, honestly still trying to process how this day—well, night, and actually morning now—has turned out.

 

Cesaro shoots a smile over to him, one that’s unnervingly sweet for a  _damn pirate_. “Ambrose. Dean. He doesn’t like stealing. Still, can’t get on as we do without stepping outside the comfort zone sometimes.”

 

“And what is it exactly that you do?” Roman asks.

 

“Whatever needs be done, my friend,” Cesaro answers, and it’s an outlaw’s answer if Roman ever heard one.

 

So, here he is, making friends with pirates. Roman just shakes his head, catching the weird look Tamina is shooting him across the crate they’re carrying. “Don’t know why you’re tellin’ me all this. Far as I’m concerned this business is done with. And y’all leave my shipments alone from now on.”

 

Cesaro nods his head slowly, a few times. “Well, it’s funny,” he starts, then pauses, like he has to reword his thoughts, and despite himself Roman is curious about what he considers funny, about any of this. “Ambrose doesn’t normally…”

 

“Doesn’t normally what?” Roman asks, and Cesaro just sends him another of those oddly warm smiles. “I’m not really too pressed about it, man, if you want the truth.”

 

“Okay,” Cesaro says agreeably. “I just think, well. If you ever need help dealing with the folks round these parts…”

 

Roman arches a brow, at just the same time Tamina does, though her look is more of disbelief, and his own, amusement. “Yeah, all right. I’ll keep you and your boy in mind.”

 

When they get the shipment back, all accounted for, and start getting it loaded on board, Roman lays out his hands for Jimmy and Jey to give each a congratulatory slap. Hell, he’s pretty sure he’s earned that much, and he takes a moment to watch the men work, as the last of the crates is set down by Cesaro and a few others from Dean’s ship.

 

The men raise hands toward him—Roman notes that the others beside Cesaro look far more disgruntled about this whole thing, which, whatever—but before they can take off, Roman beckons the man over to him.

 

“Yes, Roman?” the man greets, again altogether too pleasant.

 

Roman glances back toward his ship, then looks at Cesaro. “Look, I know I don’t owe none of you no apology since you just brought back what you stole—but I wanna know something.”

 

“I will answer what I can, my friend.”

 

Roman rubs at his neck. “Your—uh—money situation. Is it bad?”

 

Cesaro looks amused in a way that kind of makes Roman itch. “I’m not sure that it is,” he answers honestly. “We’re taken care of, generally, if that’s what you wonder. Never hungry. Never thirsty. Never lacking for entertainment.”

 

“Okay. Well—here.” He finds a small bound leather pouch in a pocket, tugs it free with the tell-tale jingle of coin, and sets it in Cesaro’s hand. “For your—uh, for your doctor. Heard they haven’t been paid in a while.”

 

Cesaro’s face lights up with a ridiculous grin, and he nods a few times. “That is me, at your service.”

 

Roman smiles a little, somehow just fine with that.

 

“I’ll make sure my associates never steal from you again, Roman,” Cesaro promises, with a slight bow of his head, and Roman waves him off as he turns to leave.  

 

Six days. Six days as captain.

 

He ignores Tamina’s stare as he makes his way back up to his cramped little cabin, to finally sleep.


	2. Talking Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST OF ALL thank you so much for the sweet comments oh my gosh—I’m so glad this is entertaining for you guys, your feedback gives me life and made me super excited to keep going so tysm I love u guys ;v;; secondly, I want to just go ahead and slap a warning on this now; there will be violence, smoking/drinking, gambling, mentions of prostitution, maybe drugs, but nothing terribly extreme nor graphic I believe; if there are specific warnings I will always place them on a chapter c: in this chapter, there is drinking and smoking/gambling
> 
> get ready for a lot of unwieldy exposition :^);;;;

 

For the next five or six weeks, Roman doesn’t run into any trouble. Nothing serious, anyway; nothing devastating to his work, and at this point Roman’s happy to take it. They’ve made a few successful trips at this point, just enough to prove he’s got a handle on keeping things going for his family. There’s no secret the crew at large doesn’t really like him, and maybe he’s not making any attempt to give them a reason to respect him anyway, out of sheer _I’m the captain, like it or not._

 

He certainly hasn’t given them reasons to hate him the way he’s positive his brother would have, had he stayed to take the role of captain as he was supposed to. His brother’s a cocky shit who considers himself entitled to the kinds of things no man on land or sea is really entitled to, but at this point Roman’s thinking even _he_ would be taken better by the crew than Roman is now.

 

All of this despite the fact he doesn’t run things too differently than his father had. He gives a generous pay. Doesn’t question the crew what they do with their time on shore. Makes sure everyone’s fed and given proper supply to stay healthy and clean, and even shells out from his personal share of their income to make sure they have some entertainment when they can.

 

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing wrong, he just knows he’s not doing something right.

 

Still, Roman is stubborn at heart and hell, he’s the one who stayed back when his brother wouldn’t. He’d like to believe he at least deserves to do this shit his way.

 

“Roman.” There’s a knocking on the door, louder than it needs to be to get his attention in his cramped quarters, and it’s quick to rouse him up from where he’s laid down. Judging by the sun he’s gotten a solid hour to himself without interruption, and that’s as good as it gets these days.

 

“Yeah, Naomi.” He sits up on the pile of cloth and blankets and small pillows he calls a bed, sets his feet on the floor. “Come in.”

 

The door gets pushed open without much hesitation, and it goes shut just as promptly as the woman steps into his room, leaning up against the back of it and just looking at him.

 

“You all right?” she asks, and Roman shoots a reflexive grin from where he’s hunched over, one that can’t possibly look too happy. “Well, you’d better be. You got to show at the traders’ summit tonight and it’s not optional, so we’re gonna go over a few things before then.”

 

Roman lifts a hand without lifting his head, waving it, indicating he understands.

 

“The family runs a respectable trade; you always have. You’re gonna make it clear to everyone—the Ortons especially—that you never done no dirty work, and it ain’t about to start now. Say the gods demand it, of course, if you need the extra kick to your point.”

 

Roman does look up there, a hint of amusement in his face. His family’s always taken their ties to the gods seriously, but he doesn’t have it in him to be offended at how Naomi speaks; all business and a little blasphemy, and though Roman’s dad never liked her from the moment Jimmy brought her to the family, that’s one place where Roman and his dad differed greatly.

 

“You listening, Roman?” Naomi asks.

 

Roman clears his throat gently. “Yeah, I got it. No dirty work, word of the gods. They won’t start shit about that either unless they want things to get ugly.” He pauses, rubs at his chin and jaw, not really believing his own words. “Orton won’t like that, though. Don’t think they respect me half as much as they did Dad, too.”

 

“Make them respect you then,” Naomi presses, with something like impatience. “Put a curse on them or something, I don’t know. You got all those family tricks up your sleeve, don’t you, Roman? Take Jimmy with you, he could put a scare in ‘em if you want. He does those _songs._ ”

 

Roman shakes his head with a short laugh. “C’mon, Naomi. Every year they care less and less about the gods. Ain’t nothing to respect but gold and silver, even all the way up at the Queen’s seat.” He glances up, his expression mild before a frown furrows his brow. “Come to think of it, they won’t like if we insist on keepin’ our hands clean at all at this point. You remember the last meeting?”

 

Naomi folds her arms and gives a curt nod. “Wasn’t there, but I know Orton passed the torch to his kid six months ago. Ruthless fuck. He was behind the sugar tax, too,” she goes on, getting more heated as she goes, because for whatever reason she’s always had a _thing_ about the sugar tax specifically. “I’m tellin’ ya Roman. Nothin’ at the bakeries tastes right since that damned tax. Smugglers bringing in their subpar sugar everywhere. You gotta find a way to turn that around.”

 

Trying not to smile, Roman runs a hand over his mouth and nods too, distractedly. “So you want me to cozy up to Randy Orton and talk sugar?”

 

“Well, may-be!” Naomi’s eyes widen sarcastically, and she purses her lips, suddenly back on topic. “It wouldn’t hurt your chances of staying in their good graces, now, would it? You know about him. Runs in low town half the time, gambling and whatever else.” Her nose scrunches slightly. “Go out and entertain him for a bit if that’s what you gotta do to keep the family on their good side. No one’s gonna judge you if you come home a little messed up, I’ll make sure of that.”

 

Roman doesn’t love the sound of it, but he heaves a breath and another nod, grateful for the help anyway. “A’ight. Thanks. I gotta get ready now.”

 

“No no, Roman, I’m not done with you yet,” Naomi cuts in, drawing his attention back to her again. “Been meaning to ask you somethin’.” And the way she leans in to completely hold his attention this time definitely does not make Roman very comfortable. “Heard from Tamina about how you went about getting back our stolen shipment a couple months ago.”

 

Roman folds his arms, leans back a bit out of her face where he sits. “Yeah? Don’t think I did half bad on that one.”

 

Naomi ignores the prompting, just going on with her point very bluntly. “Ambrose, wasn’t it? You know what kind of guy you made friends with?”

 

Somehow Roman doesn’t feel it’s appropriate to remind her—and Tamina, who’s brought up the incident a time or two over the weeks—that he didn’t make _friends_ with anyone; he just glowers somewhat, and waits for her to get to her point.

 

“Stories might just be stories—and yeah, they usually are—but he’s got a bad rep, Roman. _Bad._ If the traders circle hears you’re associating with him, it’s gonna end bad for all of us. So maybe nip that in the bud if you were getting ideas.” She holds up a hand to stop him from speaking. “I’m not gonna lecture you, that ain’t my job to do. You’re the captain here at the end of the day.” She straightens up and holds up her hands defensively. “Makin’ friends with other sailors is fine, but I need you to make sure you know what you’re getting into, when you go out leaving trails. Your name carries weight, like it or not.”

 

Roman’s still glowering, but he nods. Truthfully he hasn’t thought extensively about the one-time encounter from weeks back all that much, but a few times he has caught himself glancing down harbor out of some inexplicable curiosity; seeing if that one ship with its memorable crew (and captain) is there.

 

“You got nothin’ to worry about,” he says, after a beat.

 

Naomi smiles. “Good. Cause I’ll turn you to the sharks and put Jimmy in the captain’s seat if you fuck up, baby. Don’t think I won’t.”

 

Roman’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Get outta my damn cabin. Captain’s orders.”

 

* * *

 

So, Roman does as he was advised. He shows up to the meeting of the most influential names and faces this side of the sea, introduces himself to those who don’t recognize him as the representative of his family. And he can tell, for the most part, no one is really that impressed with him, though in this case it’s mainly the family name behind him, he thinks, and not so much which particular member of the family it is.

 

He listens to them speak about their initiatives, their plans for the markets, their issues with a lack of healthy laborers to bring up the usual crop—(maybe if he’d let Ambrose make off with his medicine six weeks ago and distribute it to the common folk there’d be less of a problem with sick laborers, he jokes to himself)—and just to get his voice out there, an inside joke only he’s in on, he mentions some public dissent about the sugar tax. Which just gets him patronizing looks, since you just don’t really question the decisions pushed by the Orton family, even in a space said to be regulated by the democratic consensus of the workers.

 

At the end of the meeting, he’s not particularly _disappointed_ that he was never given a chance to cozy up to any Orton family member, even if he’s well aware it’s naïve to think he’d be able to conduct his business undisturbed without their official protection. He’s willing to risk not giving the best impression this time, at least, though the old man stops Roman on his way out and lets him know where Randy can be found tonight if Roman wants to ‘talk business’.

 

But he does have another problem, one that is tied directly to the favor bestowed publicly upon his family by the Ortons: everyone—not just Ambrose, the one time—but everyone, _always,_ assumes he is rich.

 

The men in the traders’ summit, of course, they’re important enough to know Roman’s family had never been particularly drowning in riches. But there’s nothing he can do to convince anyone else that he isn’t, and every respectable trader in every single port town knows his face from years of business with his dad. So when he goes to order supplies for his ship’s next departure from shore, he can’t help noticing he’s been getting worse and worse deals.

 

What was meant to be a short stop by the market to place a simple order of cloth, barreled water, dried meat and cheese and bread—turns out to be a long-suffering, outright _unpleasant_ experience of haggling and wearing down his own pride for no good reason.

 

He refuses to underfeed his crew or let them go thirsty, so he tries one merchant, then another, then the last in town who could possibly supply what he needs in the time he has; not a single one’s willing to part with what he needs at any reasonable cost.

 

Not for the first time, Roman wonders how he’s supposed to afford to be alive.

 

* * *

 

He figures, his best bet is now—as it has been since he was a kid—is to _talk business_ with the Ortons.

 

The ties between their families aren’t exactly tight, but they go back long enough that even the son of the man who worked closely with Roman’s father, is bound to show a degree of respect toward him. Roman still remembers the _dinner parties,_ still remembers his father taking off with Orton senior to discuss the state of the trade and leaving him and his brother and cousins to entertain themselves in opulent, crowded, music-filled banquet halls and manors.

 

He also remembers Orton’s son, Randy, leading him around at those parties while Jey and Jimmy went off to start whatever shit they could.

 

They’re not particularly great memories. It’s always the strangest little things you remember about a person, like how the kid would drag him in to show off his collection of exotic snakes (he’s sure now that they weren’t exactly legal to own) or—when the both of them were a little older, maybe twenty or so—the guy was never seen without a few good-looking individuals on his arms, and some grating comment tossed Roman’s way about it.

 

All in all, Roman’s always had the feeling Randy looks down on him, and it’s why he’s not exactly pleased that he’s his only go-to right now.

 

Still, there’s a few things that come before Roman’s pride, and _family_ is one of those things.

 

“Ah, hey.” Randy waves Roman over to his table, at the far end of the darkened room, filled with smoke and noise, and Roman figures by the quick reaction that Randy was expecting to see him out here, eventually. It’s not a nice place—one of the seedy joints owned at the top level by Randy’s family, though Randy’s really the only one of them you ever see inside one. Gambling dens, mostly, and sex trade deeper into town. Never really been Roman’s scene.

 

“Hi, uh, Mister Orton,” Roman greets, awkwardly taking a seat near the man, shifting a bit until he’s settled and flashing a brief smile to the woman drinking beside him.

 

Randy grins around the cigar he’s got between his teeth and pushes a pile of gold coin to the middle of the table, while the others watch their cards (and each other). Roman ignores it, though he can’t help being aware that a fraction of that gold would’ve covered his expenses for the month.

 

“ _Mister Orton._ It’s like we don’t even know each other,” Randy laughs, smoke escaping his teeth as his bet’s placed and he sits back in his chair. He lifts his chin to him, “What’s got you so stressed, eh? You need something?”

 

Right down to business. Roman rubs at the side of his neck, grateful he’s not being asked to join in on anything, because truthfully his mind is elsewhere at the moment. “Actually, I just wanted some advice,” he ventures, rubbing at his jaw.

 

Randy’s eyes linger on him for a long moment before returning to his hand. “Yeah, shoot.”

 

“Well—to tell you the truth, I ain’t havin’ much luck getting my expenses sorted out lately. Don’t know what it is, but no one this side of the sea wants to part with a bit of damn meat and cloth for a decent price.”

 

Randy doesn’t hesitate to answer, though a laugh cuts out of him first, sharp and unpleasant. “No, course not. You saw that big funeral we threw for your old man. You were there. We took you and your cousins into our family in your time of need. Folks figure you got set up nice and pretty.”

 

Roman rolls his shoulders a bit, tone measured as it can get. “That’s what they _figure_.”

 

“Aye,” Randy agrees, patting a satisfied hand over the shoulder of the woman at his side, who eyes Roman shortly, judgmentally it feels like—Roman can feel the smoke in the room crowding up. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, and some sort of heat is gathering slowly in his head, one that’s hard to ignore.

 

A long moment passes, and Randy passes a glance his way, along with an almost undetectable smirk.  “You here to ask me for money, Roman?”

 

Roman clenches his jaw, stares at Randy unflinchingly. Yeah, he remembers this guy. Remembers how he was when they were ten, when they were twenty, and now, at the age of thirty, he’s just the same prick he always was.

 

If it would stop at him goading Roman into asking for money, maybe he could do that. But it’s never just that. Randy will keep pushing you—he’s got a way of trying to break down your pride if you let him. Roman can play games, but this is a losing game by design, meant to be nothing but humiliating for its participant.

 

“Nah,” is all Roman says, pushing himself to his feet abruptly, pushing his seat back. “Just wanted your opinion, that’s all. So uh, thanks for that.”

 

He clears out before Randy can respond, but he can feel smug eyes on his back.

 

* * *

 

After a fairly shitty evening, Roman doesn’t really want to go back to the ship. They’re out on leave at the moment anyway, and he’s still got a few days to figure out what he’s going to do about getting supplies, so for the time being he does what most of his crew is doing—spends a bit of time in town.

 

He heads for one of the taverns close to the docks, places that boast cheap drinks, rooms not far from port, musicians some nights of the week, and quick access to gambling and other forms of entertainment just a few blocks into town. He doesn’t rent a room, but he settles into a seat at the bar, orders a tankard of the local stuff, and tries to clear the cigar smoke from his throat and Randy’s smirking face from his head.

 

An hour into it, Roman’s got just enough of a buzz going to feel a little bit of the weight lifting from his shoulders—it’ll come back, but for now it’s just enough to let him focus on the cheerful conversation he’s having with the person next to him about mermaids (and the fact he _definitely_ saw one between the waves during a storm when he was seventeen).

 

He’s right in the middle of listening to whatever’s being said back to him when—out of the corner of his eye—he spots some movement at the far end of the bar, sees a man bound down the stairs, past the tables and crowd, and toward the exit.

 

Roman stumbles abruptly to his feet, startling his conversation partner, and he mumbles an apology but doesn’t do much more than that before heading out after the retreating figure.

 

_I know him._

 

That’s all the reason Roman needs, at the moment, to pursue the man, forcing his way out the door with the jingling of door chimes behind him. He can’t remember the guy’s name, since they’d only met the one time, but oddly enough there’s something about him that caught Roman’s eye with very little effort, something that’s more recognizable than most.

 

He chases after him, slowing down when he sees the man turn into an alleyway a little way ahead of him, and it’s got to be the slight buzz running through his system that doesn’t put a bit of hesitation in his step when he turns right into that same alleyway and interrupts whatever covert meeting is going on.

 

The quiet exchange of words between two men goes interrupted by Roman’s hand on one’s shoulder.

 

“I know you,” Roman states, louder than he should’ve, while Dean scrambles back from the touch, holding out his hands to put distance between himself and his unexpected—well, as he seems to assume, assailant.

 

Dean’s expression goes from aggressive to confused to… something else, within seconds.

 

“Fucking _hell,_ ” Dean hisses. “You scared the—damn. What were—were you _following_ me, man?” he demands, waving back the person he’d been meeting with, who looks between the two of them suspiciously, a hand poised at his sword handle.

 

Roman eyes the unnamed man and his weapon before bringing his eyes back to Dean. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I uh—I saw you running. Thought you might need help.”

 

Dean stares at him for a second, then a fist comes up to his mouth, and Roman watches the guy start biting at the knuckle of his thumb. “Get outta here,” he says to the third man there with them. “I’ll handle this, see you back there when you’re done,” he gives instructions that Roman figures are worded vaguely on purpose.

 

When the man’s gone, Dean turns back to Roman. “You thought I might need help,” he repeats back to him, finally, and Roman figures the excuse sounded as dumb going into Dean’s ears as it had coming out of Roman’s mouth. He at least has the decency to look sort of embarrassed about it. “Are you fuckin’ drunk?”

 

“Nah.” Roman clears his throat, and suddenly he feels a lot more sober, actually. Not that he was really drunk to begin with, but maybe his decision to follow Dean out here would be better excused by the influence. How else do you explain that feeling of _I needed to get away from everything, and you seemed to be going in the right direction?_ “Didn’t mean to interrupt, though. None of my business what you’re doin’ out here, long as you’re not picking up crates off my docks again.”

 

Judging by the sarcastic nodding of Dean’s head, the guy does, in fact, remember him and how they met. He looks vaguely annoyed by the comment, but not much else, seeming to catch Roman’s lighter mood. “I’m nothin’ but a shining example of an upstanding citizen, right here,” he says, with a jitter of his body. “But seriously, what are you doing here?” He glances off to the side, past Roman’s shoulder, generally looking around as if expecting more people to follow behind him.

 

“Relax, man.” Roman shakes his head. “Could just be here to take you up on that drink I owe you.” Roman doesn’t even know where the words come from; he’d forgotten about that until this exact moment. Judging by the way Dean’s eyes snap to him there and just _stay_ on him, it might’ve been on the weirder range of things to say. “Joke. Just a joke.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Dean snorts, but Roman would like to think he doesn’t look altogether too displeased with things. Dean seems to take pity on him anyway and slings an arm around Roman’s shoulders as he leads them out of the alleyway, most likely so nobody would accuse Dean of trying to mug him. “Gotta tell you, man, you’re pretty good at the whole ‘lost dog’ thing. C’mere. There somethin’ I can do for you? For real now. I don’t like to beat around the bush, so be straight with me—before I start getting suspicious. Don’t give me reason to be suspicious, all right.” He punctuates it with a slap of his hand over Roman’s chest.

 

“Actually—” Roman lets the guy ruffle his hair before he lets go of him, out on the stone-paved street. Somewhere in the back of his head he hears Naomi’s warning, but he’s more than a little low on options. “Actually, yes. I sort of need help with something, if you’re willing. You got connections out here, right? With suppliers, that sort of thing.”

 

“You might not be happy about ‘em, but yeah,” Dean says, biting at the knuckle of his thumb and peering at him.

 

Roman nods. “I’m fine with that. Hook me up and I’ll owe you more than a drink.”

 

“Huh.” There’s a long pause, a long moment of the two just looking at each other expectantly, before Dean finally relents. “Well, I wouldn’t mind having someone like you in my debt,” he grins—and he leans toward Roman slightly, balancing his weight back and forth on different feet.

 

It’s a little cheesy, but Roman’s not uncomfortable with the playful leering, whatever’s behind it. Somehow, he’d rather owe one to this guy than to Randy Orton—maybe that’ll be his first mistake in a list of many, but well.

 

He’s captain now.

 

* * *

 

“Quiet,” Dean warns, for the tenth or eleventh time, while Roman sneaks behind him, against the walls of a cool stone hallway, making their way through the shadows cast by torchlight.

 

Roman does as directed, but this is most definitely _not_ what he signed up for when he asked for help. He just figured Dean would introduce him to a few shady merchants (which, to his credit, he did do before they came out here) who’d find him good deals on ill-gotten goods. Not drag him along for the perpetration of his business.

 

 _It's the drinks,_ Roman lies to himself, because how else to explain why he hasn’t just left?

 

He knows this place. He’s been here before, albeit under much more acceptable circumstances, and when the halls were lit by sunlight and workers marched across the fields, transporting crates between buildings. They’ve infiltrated one of the supply depots run by the quartermaster of the royal navy, and Roman can only assume Dean is here to steal supplies from the military.

 

_Would’ve been a better idea to just steal Orton’s coin while looking him in the face._

 

“Relaaaaax,” Dean drawls, right after he’s knocked out two guards with a heavy strike to each head, smiling very _roguishly_ at Roman while the bodies slump to the ground. “I know what you’re thinking. And no, don’t worry. We’re not here to steal from the precious little Queen.” He jerks his eyebrows up at Roman, though Roman can only really see part of his face with the heavy shadows cast by the walls and the sparse lighting. No wonder these guards didn’t see them coming.

 

He has to stifle a grin when Dean crouches down to yank the guards’ uniforms off their bodies, even if he has an idea of what comes next. “What are we doing here, exactly?”

 

Dean doesn’t seem to mind Roman staring either way as he goes about undressing himself next, as if there’s nothing unusual about what he’s doing. “The quartermaster runs supply through here for whoever’s willing to pay up,” he explains. “For the _superior_ protection services _._ ” He grins again, gleeful of the irony. Though he pauses while he’s pulling on the guard’s uniform, tugging it where the fabric hugs too tight over his legs, and too loose around the waist, and Roman doesn’t know why he had to just notice that in particular—but Dean’s looking at him expectantly, so Roman quickly meets his eyes.

 

A long beat.

 

“We got two uniforms for a reason, big guy,” Dean drawls, at last, and Roman looks down at the other set of clothes on the ground. “I even left you the bigger one, see. This ain’t the time to get shy, Roman. Time’s a-wastin’.” 

 

* * *

 

At least Roman’s learning things today.

 

One: he doesn’t like uniforms. Of any kind. They’re stuffy and closed-in in the same kind of way the fancy clothes he’s always been made to wear to the Ortons’ dinner parties are.

 

Two: it’s not that hard to be an outlaw, apparently.

 

“So we _are_ stealing supplies,” Roman presses, since he didn’t get a proper answer earlier, tugging incessantly at where his too-tight sleeves keep pulling at his shoulders. They’ve made it past a few other guards at this point, getting nothing but brief glances from those who didn’t particularly recognize Dean or Roman, but the uniforms did their job well enough. “Just not from the Queen?”

 

“Yeah. Explain in a second.” Dean is biting at his knuckle again, leading Roman down halls toward a warehouse, all stacked crates and imposing stone masonry around it. Roman glances up toward it, wondering how the hell they’re supposed to get any of this out of here, and Dean heads to the far door of the place as if on cue, to unlatch and open it. Ten or fifteen people shuffle inside, a few of which Roman recognizes.

 

He stays back, anyway, not particularly wanting to be seen by Dean’s crew at this point.

 

Dean comes back after a few minutes, watching as crate after crate gets loaded out and handed off, one by one, out the door, clearly proud of the procession. “Someday you’ll appreciate the beauty of this act, Roman,” he says.

 

Roman glances sidelong at him. “I’m not sure about that.”

 

“You wanna know who we’re stealing from first, right?” Dean asks, and starts pacing a bit, like something’s suddenly gotten him worked up. Roman eyes him cautiously, curiously. “Yeah, yeah. I told you I’d tell you. There’s this— _guy,_ ” he says, with so much venom in his tone that Roman can’t help but wonder what the personal aspect of this might be. “Privateer from out east, name of Barrett. Y’heard of him?”

 

Roman thinks about it for a second, frowning. They’re not at some shitty remote supply depot, they’re at the navy’s storehouse. “Yeah, but he’s…”

 

“An _outlaw_ , I know,” Dean finishes, talking quick, like he can’t stand the actual subject at hand, and Roman can’t help just paying attention, wondering what the justification for all this is. “Like I said. Privateer. Hired hand of the royalty—that’s the little detail they don’t want you to know. Interferes with aaaaall the little traders who aren’t _lucky_ enough to have the sea gods at their backs.”

 

Roman bears an unimpressed look about him there, because it’s not like shit is just _easy_ for him. But he can acknowledge that it’s possibly harder for everyone else, in their own ways. “Didn’t know that,” is all he says, and he still doesn’t, because he’s taking what Dean says, reasonably, with a grain of salt.

 

Still, he’s curious.

 

“Heard there was some fiasco with the captain of their navy, too,” Roman recalls, volunteering things without asking questions directly—having the sense Dean wouldn’t take to being interrogated anyway. And the less conflict he has to deal with today, the better. “He got greedy. Got in with the wrong crowd.”

 

Dean glances at him quickly. “Who, Cena?”

 

“Yeah,” Roman says, but even as he recites what’s been told to him, what he’s had no reason not to believe any time before this, for whatever reason he feels like the story’s a bit suspicious now.

 

Dean snorts, turning his eyes back to where the back half of the storehouse is steadily emptying out. “Figures they’d tell you that.” He’s back to biting his knuckle again. “What else they say about him?”

 

“Heard they had him set to hang for treason, but the Ortons bought his debts as a show of good faith to the crown. Don’t know what he’s up to now, if he’s still alive, or what.” He pauses, looking at Dean to continue.

 

Dean, evidently lost in thought instead, looks back at him after a moment. “What?”

 

“I mean…” How do you ask a man who’s a thief by trade to explain the truth of something to you? Why would you in the first place? Roman quiets his thoughts and just gives a slight shake of his head. “Just thinking about it, it doesn’t all add up.”

 

“Course it doesn’t.” Dean claps his hands, startling Roman with the volume of it, and shoots half a smile back at him when he notices. “Lemme tell you something. I _met_ Cena once. Guy is a lot of things. But treasonous, a traitor, a _fuckin’ little rat—_ ” He pauses. “He’s not _that._ ”

 

“So, what?” Roman watches him closely, thinking Dean’s going to make some sudden movement and catch him off-guard again. “You saying he was set up?”

 

Dean nods, but Roman can tell his attention has swung suddenly over to whatever’s happening over by the crates and his crew. “I’m sayin’ he tried to do one good thing for the people, cut out that crown-sanctioned _prick_ Barrett, and the King wasn’t too happy about his little _pawns_ not getting along with each other.”

 

Roman figures that’s the place to let the topic go, not wanting to work the guy up any more than he is. “It’s a theory,” he offers, then, “I actually don’t have a hard time believing it, tell you the truth.”

 

Despite the hard lines on Dean’s face, and the cold steel in his eyes, the look he casts back to Roman seems almost appreciative.

 

“Come on,” Dean says, then. “We got cratefuls of chicken beaks to load up in here before daybreak. Ol’ Barrett’s gonna _love_ it.”

 

* * *

 

There isn’t a trace of cigar smoke left in his throat now. There’s other things—anticipation, a nervousness, an uneasiness with the world now that he’s been given cause to think about it a little more; he’s lonely, too, and hates the fact that he misses his brother, wanting his opinion on some of the shit that’s been on his mind. But the smoke, the smoke’s gone.

 

And there’s worse places to be than out on the bluffs with a half-full bottle of rum and the view of where the moon casts over the expanding black of the ocean.

 

“Can I be honest with you for a sec,” Dean’s voice cuts through the silence, and his presence is just close enough for Roman to feel the warmth of him, a few feet at his side, propped up on the same rocks. He holds out his hand.

 

“Yeah.” Roman takes a drink of the rum and hands it back over. “Captain to Captain, I’m listenin’.”

 

Dean might be grinning a little, but Roman’s been trying not to look at the guy _too_ much. So he just has to guess. “Here’s what I think: you owe me more than a drink now. So, just consider the rest of this interest.” He lifts the bottle and Roman does look over then, giving a huff of a laugh as Dean shakes it playfully.

 

Roman’s eyes return to the sea crashing on the waves below. “Yeah. I do.” He takes it more seriously than the other man appears to, anyway. How else is he supposed to feel? All those supplies he and his crew yanked out of that storehouse, he gave the whole of it to Roman. Worth at least fifty, sixty gold, and he didn’t charge him a copper for it.

 

“Fuck’s sake,” Dean gripes. “You kind of did me a favor there. I’m already set up on supplies for a good while, don’t need the rest of that shit weighing me down.” He knocks a fist against Roman’s arm. “Gotta hide the evidence somehow.”

 

Roman eyes him with a little grin. “I can still pay for some of it. Your crew did all the work.”

 

Dean shrugs and takes another drink. “If they want to be paid, you figure it out with them. Ain’t my business.”

 

“A’ight.” Roman is laughing a little, and it feels sort of hysterical, all things considered. As much as this whole thing worked out for him, this isn’t something he can just rely on to continue to supply him over the years. And if it gets out _how_ he got his shit lined up, he’s in a lot of damn trouble. He figures he can only afford to not worry about it for the extent of the rest of this night, then say goodbye to Ambrose for good and figure out how he’s gonna keep his crew taken care of.

 

He breaks the silence, this time. “So you’re not, uh.. worried?”

 

Dean twists the cap back on the bottle and starts tossing it between his hands, nearly fumbling and dropping it down the bluffs before catching it again. “Worried about what?”

 

Roman purses his lips slightly, reaching over to snatch the bottle back and down a good mouthful. “That I’m gonna, you know— _tell_ someone the shit you get up to.” He laughs, dryly. “Kind of a lot of secrets to share with a stranger, innit? You can’t tell me there ain’t some bounty on your head ‘round these parts.”

 

There’s a long silence, and Roman glances over to see a sort of stiff look on Dean’s face. “Nah,” he says, eventually, scratching his chin, then staring over at him and biting at his knuckle, a habit Roman’s gotten pretty aware of over the course of the night. “Don’t think you’d do that.”

 

“How do you figure?” Roman asks, and maybe he doesn’t particularly like that he apparently comes off so non-threatening to someone who sees a threat in everything. The guy _is_ a criminal; Roman would probably make a good bit of coin if he dragged him in—since Dean conveniently gave no comment on the mention of a bounty. “We barely know each other.”

 

Dean scoots his knees up to his chest, and wiggles the fingers of one hand at him; “The way you fight, man.”

 

A sharp laugh bursts out of Roman, while Dean snatches back the bottle with a look that’s partially offended. “Really?” Roman grins.

 

“Yes, really,” Dean shoots back with his mouth at the lip of the bottle. “You can tell a lot by the way a man fuckin’ _fights._ What’s so hard to believe about that?”

 

“Nothin’, I guess,” Roman grants him, without getting rid of the amusement on his face. They’re clearly glossing over the fact that the guy is constantly breaking all sorts of laws, but if it doesn’t occur to the guy it doesn’t occur to him. “Just—how many fights we been in, exactly? Not really that many.”

 

“I’m a quick learner,” Dean quips, this time tossing the bottle back to Roman, who just spins it in his hands.  “Especially when it comes to a good fight. Nothing else like it.”

 

Roman leans over a bit, crooking his head to peer at him. “You hoping to get into another one before we sail off in different directions?”

 

“Heh.” Dean gives him a smug look. “Way you’ve been acting? I don’t think it’s a fight you want outta me.”

 

Roman’s the one who nearly loses his grip on the bottleneck this time, only to catch it quick and sort of hold it there between his hands like he doesn’t know what to do with it. But he manages. “Hm. You’re not wrong.”

 

“Course I’m not,” Dean says, self-satisfied. “I’d be happy with a good fuck myself, but I’m not getting caught with my pants down all the way up here. So, let’s end this round on a good note.”

 

Roman settles a bit, lips curved up at one side. “Yeah,” he agrees, and leans over on his palm, pressing his weight against the rough surface of the rock. Because as he sees it, this is just one of those opportunities you have to take advantage of, since it’s not likely to happen again. Hell, they both might be dead by next week. “C’mere.”

 

He’s just close enough to notice the faded line of a scar across Dean’s cheek when the man mutters something and pulls him in with both hands on his face, lips digging jagged and lazy and a little drunk into Roman’s.

 

He notices—the way Dean’s fingers sink into his hair and hold as much of it as he can between his fingers, hanging on to his head roughly while Roman’s tongue takes the taste of rum and salt from Dean’s mouth. It’s just enough to distract him from his thoughts; he loses them while he can, for as _long_ as he can, steals Dean’s breath, and runs a hand along the man’s jaw just to feel the scrape of stubble on his palm.

 

“Cheers,” Roman mutters when he draws back, flicking a nail against the bottle in Dean’s hand, and Dean hums in agreement.

 

They could always head back to town and find a room to blow off the rest of the night in, but that’s kind of the opposite of going your separate ways, and his mind isn’t in it right now. So he puts the idea aside. Dean seems aware of his thoughts—or is already there himself—in that he’s standing, and offering a hand up to him. He grins at Roman when they’re both on their feet, lifts the bottle of rum up, shakes it again.

 

“Good shit,” Dean says. “Thanks for the drink. And the help.”

 

Roman licks his lips and gives a nod of his head, looking over to him. “Try not to get arrested. Yeah?”

 

“Ha. Don’t lose any sleep over it, stranger.” There’s a smirk on Dean’s face as the man turns away, and Roman’s trying to ignore the apprehension that’s been twisting up in his gut since he first got here, knowing it’s two seconds to not having his company as a distraction.

 

He glances back out to sea, watching the distant shift of waves as Ambrose walks off, stumbling footsteps fading into silence.

 

* * *

   


“Hey, Roman,” Jimmy calls to him when he’s back on deck, despite it being long past midnight. “Where you been?”

 

Roman trudges over, too tired to deal with whatever this probably is, and for some reason the smell of cigars is burning his nose again. “’Ey,” he greets him, and if it’s clear he’s a bit out of sorts he doesn’t particularly care. Roman’s never been the best at hiding his feelings.

 

Jimmy eyes him for a moment before leaning in to talk quietly. “Who were those guys loadin’ up our ship earlier?” he asks, under his breath. “Don’t look like no market hands I ever seen. Workin’ at midnight, too.” There’s suspicion in his tone, but it’s not so much accusatory as it is nervous.

 

Roman sets a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and squeezes. “Just some associates. Had a chat with the Ortons this evening to get things in line in time for us to set sail.”

 

“The Ortons, eh? Randy, you met up with him?” Jimmy questions, and it’s hard not to notice how he seems to be put a bit at ease at that. Roman can only taste smoke. “He get you a good deal on this stuff? It’s good quality man, I had a look.”

 

Roman smiles a bit. “Yeah, Randy. Met up with him a while after the summit.”

 

“Okay,” Jimmy says, though he doesn’t look totally convinced, and hell, they grew up together. Of course he’d know when something’s off. “Naomi said you were gonna try to hook up, glad you got ‘em. ”

 

Roman nods. He figures he’s glad too, since the alternative is not having enough stock and risking his people’s lives on the open sea. But hiding things from Jimmy, that leaves a heavy feeling in him on top of everything else.

 

“I can smell that shit you been drinking,” Jimmy adds with a grin. “Whew.”

 

Roman laughs a little, but doesn’t comment on it, and it’s fairly clear he’s not really up for chatting about this meeting he supposedly had.

 

Jimmy’s still eyeing him. “If you need anything, though. Help, or something, you know you got me and Jey here anytime,” he says, and Roman doesn’t really love the concerned look in his eyes, but it’s more because he knows he’s probably given everyone good reason to _be_ concerned about him. When Jimmy holds out his arms, Roman leans in, pulling him into a quick hug.

 

He’s got to get a handle on this, soon.


End file.
